


the best bad girls go to hell

by Sighned_Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1500s, 16thcentury, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Antichrist, Church of Satan, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demons, Evil, F/M, Fire, Hellfire, History, I did historical research for this, King James - Freeform, Lucifer - Freeform, Period Typical Underage, Pregnancy, Read at Your Own Risk, Religious Themes, Sacrifice, Satan Worship, Satanic Hermione, Satanism, Scotland, Sex with the devil, Smut, Tags: Dark Hermione, Voldemort is Satan, What the fuck have I done?, Will probably be a series?, Witch Trials, Witchcraft, You Have Been Warned, because I couldn't ask my professors for help, but the dialogue isn't accurate, coven - Freeform, everyone fucks, everyone worships the devil, good lord satan I can't believe I tagged that, influenced by sabrina, i’m going to hell for this, like a fuckton of dirty sex, like real dirty, pseudo-bestality, sacrilegious, satanic ones!, seriously not for Christians, seriously not for the faint of heart, the Devil - Freeform, the devil is his own warning, virgins, well not Christian ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sighned_Anonymous/pseuds/Sighned_Anonymous
Summary: Hermione Lovelace, aged 16, experiences her very first Walpurgis Night as a virgin offering.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Comments: 19
Kudos: 190





	the best bad girls go to hell

**Author's Note:**

> uh ya so i wrote some straight up hellfire. hope u enjoy so it won't be just me burning...

“It shan’t be much longer, Mrs. Mallory. I gaze upon his head now.” This was the first birth for Mrs. Mallory, and Hermione had been helping the woman for _hours_ . It wasn’t that she had anything against helping women birth their babes. In fact, at only sixteen years of age , Hermione had helped her Aunt Lindsay deliver over three hundred babes. But Mr. Mallory was intolerably rude. _May she rest in His arms_ , Hermione thought as she always did when she remembered her late aunt.

“It had better be a boy,” she heard a voice yell impatiently from outside. “Or I shall annul our marriage! You promised me a son!”

She smiled and looked down at the almost-new-mother. “Pay him no mind, Mrs. Mallory. You had no sickness and you’ve not a blemish in sight! A girl would have stolen her mother’s beauty.”

Mrs. Mallory might have laughed, had she not been in such pain. “Please, Heavenly Father, I ask that you spare me this night, so my son does not grow without a mother!”

Hermione gave a patronizing smile, “Certainly.” She squinted her eyes before straightening in tired triumph. “Ah, it seems it is time now! One more great heave, Mrs. Mallory, and you will have a son.”

Mrs. Mallory nodded fervently and then let out an agonizing wail. And out slipped a babe, covered in blood and fluids, lungs hollering for attention. She took her scissors and snipped the cord, wiping the babe down with the cloth that she had prepared. “A boy, Mrs. Mallory, just as you thought.”

The woman gave a relieved smile and then her face pinched and she groaned again. “Why does it still hurt?” she moaned.

“The afterbirth, Mrs. Mallory. It must come out.”

When it did, Mrs. Mallory looked at it in horror. “A demon!” she cried in alarm.

Hermione smiled indulgently. “No, Mrs. Mallory. It is simply part of the birth. Shall I get rid of it for you?”

Mrs. Mallory nodded gratefully, and Hermione handed her the babe. She let the tired woman fuss and coo over her new son as she cleaned up the blood and assorted detritus and gathered up the soiled sheets. She was reluctant to break the quiet calm now that it had arrived, but it was time to take her leave. “Now, try to rest for a few hours at least,” she said. “You will be walking by nightfall, Mrs. Mallory. If you have any worries, do send a message.” Hermione wiped her hands on a cloth and then packed her things.

“Good day, Mrs. Mallory,” she said over her shoulder as she passed through the door. Mr. Mallory’s dour face once again appeared before her, a not completely welcome sight after all she had heard and seen - or rather not seen - of him that day.

“Well?” he demanded.

“A boy, Mr. Mallory. Healthy and hale. Good lungs and good color.” She consciously tamped down on her temper to keep from hexing the man where he stood for his thoughtlessness regarding his wife. He looked unimpressed, especially as he saw the blood about her apron. “If I might, Mr. Mallory,” Hermione added as she reached the door, hands in her pocket, gripping a stone, “perhaps it might be best if you treat Mrs. Mallory with more kindness during such a difficult time.”

Mr. Mallory blinked and then mumbled as he opened the door to his wife and babe. Hermione smiled coldly and began the walk towards the woods.

The Scottish air in April chilled her skin, followed quickly by her bones. The wind and rain conspired together to toss her hair about and plaster the curly strands to her face. Spring, and April in particular, was her favorite time of the year. Scotland was soaked in rain or snow almost all year, and Hermione never minded it one bit. Her garden was all but self-sufficient since she never needed to remember to water her plants - the skies did it for her.

She didn’t bother to enter her home upon arrival. Instead, she stripped her bloodied garments off and dropped them in the wash tub she kept outside. Then she removed the afterbirth from her side bag, burying it in the large plot of tilled dirt that sat beside her garden.

When the red organ was safely stashed beneath the wet, heavy dirt, she splashed herself with water from the tub that had filled with the cool spring rain, and then emptied the entire thing into the already-soaked dirt mound. Then she refilled the basin from her rainwater well and dropped her clothes in with sprigs of lavender, ashes, and animal fat. Hermione scrubbed, _focusing_ the whole time on making the clothes clean. When she lifted them from the water, the clothes were as good as new. She hung them on the line outside her house, knowing they’d be protected from incessant downpour by the webbed crossings of the elder trees.

When the clothes were taken care of to her satisfaction, Hermione took a deep breath and plunged her head and arms into the tub to rinse off the blood, sweat, and grime. She carefully combed her fingers through her auburn hair. She had to look her best for tonight.

Walpurgis came but once a year. It was one of the most exciting holidays in Scotland, and this would be the first year she was participating as a _woman_.

“Perchance I shall find luck this year,” she whispered to herself as she squeezed the water from her hair. Walking into her home, she was greeted by her bandy-legged orange cat.

“Hello, Crookshanks. Were there any visitors whilst I was away?”

Before her cat could respond, she heard a familiar voice. “Good Evening, Sister Lovelace.”

Hermione relaxed, and turned to her right where another woman stood beside her fireplace. “Sister Payne,” Hermione responded warmly. “What brings you to my den this evening?”

The blonde woman’s lips pulled into an easy grin. “Tonight we meet for Walpurgis Night, Sister Lovelace. I hope you have not forgotten your duty.”

Hermione nodded. “Certainly not, Sister Payne. But it is a woman’s prerogative to be in her best to worship.”

Sister Payne smiled again, inclined her head when Hermione looked back, and vanished.

 _Yes_ , Hermione thought as she donned her white cloak, _Perchance luck will be with me this year_.

* * *

She had been washed, scrubbed, oiled, and perfumed to celebrate the night. Her auburn hair was in its natural state, curls hanging down to her waist as usual. She thought, perhaps, if she could see herself, she might actually be pleased with what she saw. Aunt Lindsay had always said she was pretty. Not _beautiful_ like Sister Payne who had lovely freckles and a buxom chest, or _ugly_ like Sister Kane who had been cursed with blemishes and wiry looking hair, but pleasing to look at all the same.

She wrapped her white robe tighter and followed Sister Whitegrove, who was four years her junior, towards the circle. The rain earlier that day had quickly tapered off, making way for clear evening skies that showcased a myriad twinkling stars and the cool white radiance of the moon. 

The candles were lit in a familiar shape, and the dark earth stood in freshly tilled mounds. It was wet beneath her feet, and though the night was dark, the light of the full moon shone upon her toes. She delightedly let the dirt squelch between her digits.

“I am ever so excited,” Sister Whitegrove confided, her toothy smile visible from Hermione’s side. “This is my first Walpurgis Night. Is it yours as well, Sister Lovelace?”

“Just so,” Hermione breathed out.

Annabelle Whitegrove rocked back on her heels and then took Hermione’s hand. “Do you think _I_ might be picked, Sister Lovelace?”

“Mayhap,” Hermione replied, swallowing. “You are young, yet, Sister Whitegrove.” She didn’t want to be unkind to the girl, but feelings of jealousy stirred in her stomach at the thought of being passed over for someone _younger_ than herself. After all, what did this young chit know of the world? 

The smaller girl grinned conspiratorially, not catching the slight tone warning from her companion. “Yes, I am! Did you know that no one in my family has _ever_ been chosen?”

That surprised Hermione. “Is that so?”

“If I am not picked, then I hope you are, Sister Lovelace. You always help me with my letters.” Hermione couldn’t help but smile at Annabelle, feeling slightly ashamed of her earlier spike of spite. She almost didn’t notice the girl give a mischievous look. “As long as Sister Denholm is not chosen, I shall be satisfied.”

A most unladylike snort escaped Hermione’s nose before she could stop it, and she covered her mouth as silence draped itself around the circle and their leader stepped towards them.

“Greetings to all my brothers and sisters on this auspicious night!” Her voice was commanding and regal, her dark hair wild and free, as she held the stone bowl within her palms.

Hermione looked around the inner circle where she stood with other girls in their white cloaks. Behind them stood various men and women, all dressed in white, all holding candles.

“Tonight is Walpurgis Night!” their leader exclaimed, and the group cheered and clapped their hands in excitement. “Tonight we honor our Lord in such a way that happens only on this night once every year.”

More applause and cheering answered her.

“This year, there are thirteen eligible in the circle. Eight have participated before – Sisters Denholm, Hill, Evergreen, Highmoore, Payne, Thornheart, Wraithwood, and Redbury have stood in this circle before. And a warm welcome to Sisters Whitegrove, Kane, Barlowe, Lovelace, and Morgan, who are joining the circle for the very first time.” Annabelle Whitegrove gripped Hermione’s hand harder for a brief moment before finally letting go. The older girl could hear as the younger literally swallowed back her excitement. “She who is chosen tonight will bring blessings upon this place, and make us all stronger than we were before. Do not think of yourself as a sacrifice, my Sisters. You are pleasing to our Dark Lord, doing His bidding, as you _did_ promise you would when you signed the book.”

The air was becoming colder, thinner, _electrified_. He would come, Hermione knew; the Dark Lord always watched His followers.

Sister Blackmoon picked up the dagger that lay between them and walked directly to Sister Highmoore, who took the blade and slashed both of her palms before passing it to Sister Payne beside her.

“Praise Satan!” cried Sister Highmoore, gripping Sister Payne’s bloodied hand.

“As we always do, we shall each drop blood into the Pontius Pilate’s Bowl,” spoke Sister Blackmoon. There was exciting chittering, as there always was when the Coven was able to see the unholy bowl in all its satanic glory.

She stepped forward, “We sacrifice our blood in unholy prayer,” she began to chant.

Soon, Sister Denholm passed her the blade and Hermione concentrated as she slid it across her palms and allowed the blood to drip into the bowl. One by one they all spilled their blood and stood around the wooden alter. It was a thick tree stump, cut down and sanctified with the blood of a newborn mortal babe, inscribed with their symbol of devotion.

“This blood we give to our Lord, to whom we ask for guidance,” the High Priestess continued. “For Walpurgis Night is here and we call to you to bless your unholy gifts upon us.”

Hermione gulped in the cold air and threw off her white ritual robe, just as the others beside her did.

“Thirteen virgins we have prepared for you, on Walpurgis Night, My Lord. May you bless them with your seed this night.”

Hermione’s nipples hardened, from the cold or her own desire, she didn't know. But as she felt the High Priestess spread the red-purple mixture between her thighs she struggled to stay still.

It was every witch’s dream to take the seed of the Dark Lord. To take His seed meant a blessing for life, magic stronger than any in a coven. Each year they prepared themselves for the Dark Lord, and each year He shared His seed with a virgin from their coven. He had other covens, certainly, and Hermione had never heard that any witch of the Church of Satan had borne their Lord an ill-begotten heir.

If Hermione was called by the Dark Lord tonight, He would take her body before the entire coven, just as He had done to Sister Darkmoore the year before. Witches had but two chances to lay with the Dark Lord and take His seed. 

Walpurgis night was the most favored, certainly. For when a witch began her moon’s blood, she was eligible to be chosen for the Thirteen Virgins. As the girls married, or fornicated during Lupercalia, they left the Thirteen Virgins. Hermione had risen from a lowly acolyte to a full member of the coven only this past year. 

Her blood had been late, and at sixteen she was the third oldest around the altar. When she joined with a man in unholy matrimony, she would have the chance to lay with the Dark Lord once more. If a bride was unholy in all things, and devoted to their Dark Lord, He might appear and claim her the night before she married, their children would be blessed with stronger magic, for they had been promised by the Dark Lord Himself.

“Praise Satan! Praise Satan!” they called into the air, and Hermione could feel the air picking up, could feel a tickling at her nether region and the breeze across her nipples. She was gasping as she continued her chant.

And He came.

In all His unholy glory, His long snout exuding heat that caused her flesh to pimple.

They all fell to the ground, kneeling before Him and He walked around the circle, inspecting the thirteen chosen.

“We hope you are most pleased, My Lord,” said Sister Blackmoon, the High Priestess of their coven.

“You have done well,” the Dark Lord rasped, in His deep voice.

As she did each year, Sister Blackmoon greeted their Lord, “Please, My Lord, bring prosperity to our Coven for eternity. We are honored to give you a son.” 

It was unlikely any virgin would ever give a son to the Dark Lord. Every coven begged every year. To bear the Dark Lord’s heir would mean eternal unholy glory for a coven. They would be stronger than the rest, capable of witchery that no other coven would ever conceive. But, every witch did dream of the possibility. After all, each witchling had grown up hearing stories at her mother’s knee.

“Praise Satan!” they all cried together, rejoicing that their Lord had deigned to bless them once again.

She felt Sister Denholm, Adonia Denholm, look up and scramble to kiss the Dark Lord’s hoof. Inside, Hermione sneered. Adonia and she had been in Satanic Scripture together from childhood, and Adonia had always been jealous of the praise that Hermione had gotten for her devotion to learning the tenants of the Dark Lord. If Hermione had heard correctly, this was Adonia’s last Walpurgis night. She was to marry a warlock from a coven in Wales this coming summer.

“Sit aside, girl. I have no interest in you.”

She felt, rather than heard Sister Whitegrove chortle from where she knelt. But then, she realized something really quite odd. She had not heard the clop of the Dark Lord’s hooves move past her. She stole a look up where she met the eyes of her Lord and Master.

“I find myself pleased by this one,” He breathed, “State your name, witchling.”

The air left her lungs all at once. The Dark Lord was speaking to her. To _her_ , personally. Of course, when she put mugwort upon her forehead and spun until she slept, He visited her dreams when He gave her images that she so desired. But this was no dream. She was awake in the Dark Lord’s presence.

She felt weak, faint, but she refused to collapse when a moment of such unholy greatness was afoot. She felt Sister Whitegrove squeeze her hand in support, or perhaps to stop her from falling to the ground in a drunken high.

“I am called Hermione Lovelace, My Lord,” Hermione said from her knees, excitement caused her skin to tingle. She could feel the hairs of His hooves brush against her knees.

“Hermione Lovelace,” the Dark Lord pondered, “Daughter of Helen Lovelace, I presume.”

“Just so, My Lord,” Hermione stated in wonderment, “How honored I am for My Lord to know my mother.”

“I remember the witches I give my seed, witchling.”

Hermione swallowed at the implication. The Dark Lord had blessed her mother? No one had ever spoken of her mother. She had died having Hermione, and since then, the Coven had been her mother.

“I will take this one, this night,” the Dark Lord announced.

Hermione let out a strangled breath. She had been chosen. _She_ , Hermione Lovelace, had been chosen to lay with the Dark Lord. “I am honored, as my mother was so honored, My Lord,” Hermione said, kneeling until her face was almost into the ground.

Hermione could hear Adonia huff angrily beside her, but she sat up in excited wonderment, grippingHislegs as He pulled her to stand.

“Hail Satan!” the Coven called again.

“I will bless upon your coven tonight magics so forth unknown,” the Dark Lord said as He pushed Hermione upon the altar. “This witch will take my seed, and upon her shall be my ill-begotten son.”

The Coven was stunned into silence until the High Priestess began to blubber her thanks. “You are too kind to us, My Lord.”

The Coven was abuzz. Never before had the Dark Lord proclaimed that He would put a child in a witch’s womb. All knew that one day the Dark Lord would desire an heir. For every young witch knew the story that was told at their mother’s knee. The Dark Lord would one day take a bride, her Aunt Lindsay had told her. Mortals told their children that their daughters would meet a prince and fall in love. Witches would lay with the Morningstar Himself and perhaps even become His bride. As eternal as He was, the war between Him and the false god was evermore. One day, their Lord would need a son to battle His angelic brothers. And every witchling wanted to be the one to bare Him.

Still, Hermione, who had not yet even accepted that she had been chosen to lay with the Dark Lord, was even more amazed by the idea that she had received not one but _two_ gifts from the Dark Lord on Walpurgis Night. Hermione was still shocked, and it showed on her face.

The Dark Lord snorted, heat radiating from His skin and furs, “You would be honored to do so, Hermione Lovelace, would you not?”

“I would!” she replied eagerly, “My Lord,” she tacked on the end, “I would do anything You asked of me.”

“I know you would,” the Dark Lord laughed, “You promised so when you signed your name within my book. But you _want_ to, little witchling. I did not ask whether you _will_.”

“Just so,” she cried, “I want to. I need to. I want to do _anything_ that You so desire, My Lord.”

The Coven gathered around, taking hands, feeling the power surge as the Dark Lord began His feast upon her body

“You will enjoy this, Hermione Lovelace,” He said as His massive cock rubbed against her opening. “They always do.”

She did not doubt her Lord, for whatever He said she accepted as truth. Yet eyeing the appendage that stood pronounced between His leg, Hermione was reminded not of the cock of a man, but of that of a great stallion. If she was not so devout, if she did not so believe her Lord, perhaps she would have felt fear. But she did not, for her Lord was with her, and He said that she would enjoy the blessing that He would put upon her.

He surged into her, and she cried out at the suddenness of it, expecting pain. But she felt none. She felt only pleasure as the Dark Lord’s cock kissed her womb, felt only desire for Him and all His unholiness. She felt tears bead in her eyes, tears of joy. _She_ was the focus of the Dark Lord at this very moment.

Her Lord was not thinking of Sister Denholm, or the other witches He had visited. He was focused on her, on seeding her, and no one else. Sister Denholm had not been chosen to bear the Dark Lord His heir. Nor had Sister Blackmoon, or even her own mother. It was _she_. Perhaps it was her devotion to Him, or perhaps He had listened to her nightly prayers that had begun each night since she was small.

It didn’t matter, because Hermione didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was _chosen_.

She moaned and the Dark Lord laughed wickedly as He lifted her up and put her body on display to their Coven. If she had been one of the heathen _Christians_ , she might have been ashamed for participating in such profanity act in front of her peers. But she had no shame, for the Dark Lord was with her, giving her everything she had ever wanted.

She loved the feelings that were coursing through her, and she couldn’t help but cry out as she felt a particularly hard thrust that hit her with a moment of shooting pain. When she realized what it was, she wanted to cry out in joy.

“Deeper, I beg you, My Lord, so I might give you an heir.”

She heard Him chuckle from behind her, and He pulled her up and pounded into her again, deeper even than before. The Dark Lord was inside her. He was deep, all the way where her blood came from. He was in her womb. His fingers clutching her breast so tightly, she was certain they would bruise. And yet there was no pain, only pleasure.

“ _Yesssss,_ ” she hissed through clenched teeth.

She thought about the stories Aunt Lindsay had told her, stories that fed into every young witch’s desire to please the Dark Lord.

Every witch wanted to be His bride. But Hermione didn’t just want it. She _needed_ it. She was an only child of an only child. Her Aunt Lindsay, the elderly hedge witch who had been her mother’s midwife was the only person who she had called her family. But Aunt Lindsay was long since departed from the world, and now, Hermione Lovelace was alone. She had no husband or child, mother or father.

But, if Dark Lord bred her, she would have a son, and every witch and warlock in the Church of Satan would bow before her. They would praise her very existence. She would be alone in the world no more. She would have power that no other witch or warlock would ever achieve.

She began to meet the Dark Lord’s thrusts, allowing Him to slip His forked tongue into her mouth where she submitted to His every whim.

He released within her and Hermione could feel her energy peaking, could feel as her own power gathered, and her skin began to tingle. She had never felt this much power within her, had never known her Dark Gifts to be so strong as they were in this very moment.

The Dark Lord pulled her towards Him, and pushed her to ground, presenting her with His cock, which stood at half-mast before her.

“I will take you many more times tonight, Hermione Lovelace. Prepare me.”

And she did so with relish. She had dreamed of this moment, prayed for a chance to show Him her devotion. She knew His every tenant, followed His every scripture, prayed to Him every morning, afternoon, and evening. He was the center of her life, her only comfort in this world.

His cock pushed far down her throat, and she took it without a complaint, hands around him, worshipping His very existence. He pulled away and spilled upon her face and breasts,Hisseed dripping from the silver inverted pentagram she wore around her neck.

There was not even a moment to recover before He shoved into her again. He released in her after only a few pumps, and that itself was so pleasurable that Hermione felt her leg begin to twitch and her toes begin to curl.

But she would not stop until the Dark Lord was satisfied. He gripped her hips, feet far from the ground and back toHischest, and slid her up and down His cock. It was even deeper than before, if that was possible. Her fingers scrambled to grip onto something, anything, and so they gripped His forearms.

“Unholy _fuck_!” she shrieked, eyes rolling back into her head, mouth bone dry as she tried to catch her breath. When she looked down she saw a lump in her belly, and the sight made her reach her height for the second time of the night.

He was deep. So deep that she could see the outline of Him in her belly. Satan, did she love Him for what He did.

And then she caught Sister Denholm’s eye. Adonia’s blue eyes looking at her in unconcealed rage, fury seeping from her in waves.

Hermione stared her down, moving her fingers up the Dark Lord’s arms until they were entwined around the back of His neck. _She_ had been chosen; chosen to lay with their Lord, to bare His heir.

Adonia was _nothing_.

“ _Yesss_ ,” The Dark Lord hissed, “Tonight, and every night into eternity, you are _mine_ , Hermione Lovelace.”

It seemed hours that He sought His pleasure with her. He gave her His seed dozens of times, and when He finished, He touched her womb with His sharpened nails and whispered words she did not understand. Enochian, she thought, it might be The Dark Lord, after all, was a fallen angel, a Celestial. His claw left a mark that glowed and then disappeared, and she realized whatever He had done had ensuredHisseed would take. And His will would certainly be done. She stared intoHiseyes, and pressed her hands lovingly to His snout.

“I love you more than anything, My Lord. Forever.” She plucked up her courage, closed her eyes and pressed a kiss to His goat-like cheek.

As the sun rose, Hermione opened her eyes and the Dark Lord had horns no longer.

* * *

She went about her life as she always did. Hermione Lovelace was a midwife, one of the best in their small town of North Berwick. Everyone from townsfolk to ladies called upon her services.

She attended to women, mixed her herbal potions, and thickened her grimoire as she was wont to do.

She met with the Coven, who already looked upon her in amazement and joy. She spent her time with her favorite sister of the Church, Sister Hill.

That was when she saw the first sign. A dove landed at her windowsill where she let in the cool May air. It blinked and its eyes turned blood red before it chirped and flew off towards its nest.

Alone it was simply a greeting from the Dark Lord, and she saw it as such, an offer to show His devotion to His followers, His love which He willingly gave.

Until the next sign came. The rain in late May, and nearly all the other months, was unrelenting. It was good rain, though, straight, not sideways, and perfect for a cleansing bath with nature. She stood in her garden, praying to her idol, still unused to the infernal power that coursed through her veins.

And the rain turned to blood, soaking her skin red, matting her auburn hair. She pressed her bloodied hands to her body, fingering her breasts and moaning at the tingling pleasure that shot through her skin as she fell to the grass. She placed a hand on her belly and then she cried into the night, “Praise Satan!”

The third, and final sign came upon her as she lay naked under the full moon, drinking in the celestial light that made her skin sing. From her breasts, a bloody milk begun to leak, and she rejoiced.

There was no question now, no wonder if the three signs of blood were signs from her Lord. These were no mere signs that He listened to her earnest prayers. It was more.

She fingered the book before her, the skin of it stretched and pinkening. The Lovelace grimoire was made using the skin of a sacrificed virgin witch, locking all of her magic into its own pages.

She flipped through the pages to an entry she had never bothered to read but had always known was there.

_To Know the Power in Thy Witch’s Womb_

She followed the directions, dropping herself into her tub with an egg swaddled in her vagina. She sat there for what seemed like ages as she prayed to the Dark Lord, hoping to bring eternal unholy glory to her coven, to be a mother, to give the Dark Lord His son.

She stood from the soaking tub and walked dripping wet to her garden. She cracked the egg, and out slipped a live chick.

Hermione smiled.

* * *

She thanked the Dark Lord for His seed every day, watching as her belly began to harden and round. The coven rejoiced, kissing her fingers and praying in her name. She felt no shame that she liked the respect; enjoyed the power it gave her.

But no matter their prayers, the Dark Lord did not appear to them again. It only gave her solace that all knew that Sister Dunholm had not been visited by the Dark Lord before she was wed. Adonia Dunholm was even more insufferable now than she had been before. She was constantly trying to send curses at Hermione, which annoyed her more than angered her. Last week alone she had had to transfer _two_ blood curses to an egg, destroy a puppet she had found in her fireplace, _and_ remove an illusion of a banshee outside her bedroom window.

On top of that, she was sure Andonia had sent the runespoor she had found hiding in her herb garden. That had irritated her the most, since the presence of the runespoor had rendered her entire garden of belladonna and aconite unusable. It was only an unholy miracle that she had found the three headed snake before it had situated itself in her Lazarus pit and destroyed all the protective spells she had worked for years with Aunt Lindsay to finish.

She tightened her bonnet and filled her sack with the rags and herbal infusions that she would need for Mrs. McClinnock’s birth. She rolled her eyes as she concentrated and moved herself to the woods behind the McClinnock home. She would really need to sew a new death worm silk cloak. The one that Aunt Lindsay had gifted her was losing its power, and the last time she had used it, it had kept her invisible for only a minute before the magic had failed.

“Goodness, girl. We have been awaiting you, we have,” said Mrs. McClinnock’s head maid.

Hermione walked with purpose, tightening her cloak as she felt the rain begin to fall.

“Aye, aye,” Hermione said as she crossed the barrier into the home, “Good morning, Mrs. McClinnock. I hear that a babe will certainly be born today.”

The red-faced woman let out a groan but then smiled, “Miss Hermione! God bless you, child. I worried you would not make it in time. You are always so quick.”

Hermione gave a small smile and unloaded her bag.

“Of course, Mrs. McClinnock. As soon as a babe is on its way, I am on my way.”

In only two hours, Mrs. McClinnock’s new girl was new to the world, squalling with strong lungs. She was a sweet enough babe, for a mortal, certainly.

“I see you will have your own little one,” the woman said as she rocked the infant, “I did not know that you were married.”

Hermione smiled, but didn’t reply, “Do not forget to drink the tincture that I left. It will help your milk come in.”

And with that, Hermione was onto her next home of the day. Madam Donoghue was the owner of a brothel in the center of town, so Hermione was forced to walk and not reveal her status as a witch. She walked, her bag on her shoulder and rested her hand on her belly as she started the walk into town.

“Ah Miss Lovelace. I was wondering when you would arrive this week,” Madam Donoghue said as she leaned against her post.

“I have two months of the supply here,” Hermione replied, opening her bag and pulling out eight jars of a runny violet liquid. “It is the same as I always make. I will be busy next month, so I will return in two.”

The Madam leaned forward with a smirk, “Is that so, little Miss Lovelace? Should I be worried about this batch?” she questioned, looking at Hermione’s distended middle.

Hermione smirked, “That will be two merks.”

The Madam handed the coins over and Hermione smiled and shoved them into the sewn pocket in her dress. “Always a pleasure,” Hermione replied and walked out the door towards the wooded path that led to her hidden home.

Crookshanks greeted her when she arrived, yowling and rubbing his cheeks against her legs.

“Look, Crooky,” Hermione said, leaning down to show him the coins from her pocket, “Three merks today. That is enough for me to buy all the fabric I need for nappies, caps, and gowns for the babe.”

In the next month, Hermione expelled three wailing mother spirits from her garden, and broke two curses placed on the bassinette that Sisters Whitegrove and Hill had carved from an Elder tree for her. She knew who was sending this malcontent her way. There was only one who would be foolish enough to curse the mother of the Dark Lord’s heir. She would have to act soon.

It was not all curses and evil, though. Her greatest comfort was Crooks as the weather warmed. Her sweet familiar who regularly presented her with rabbits and chickens had begun to present her with bigger and bigger catches. The week before he had left a dead elk at the doorstep that she had been excited about for multiple reasons. She had skinned the beast, prepared the hide and hung it to dry out. Then she had rendered the muscles, the sinews, the organs, and the fat. She sold half the meat at the market, dried a quarter, and put the rest into a mixture to feed herself and Crooky.

“You are such a good little boy,” she said as Crooks purred into her ear and snuggled into her side.

She dug her arms into the belly of the elk, ripping the intestine and watching as the blood dripped down her arms.

She stood before her Lazarus pit with Crookshanks by her side.

She held the intestines taut and made the first knot.

“As this knot holds firm, so shall this child hold firm.”

She made another knot.

“As this knot holds firm, so shall he within my womb.”

She tied another knot.

“As this knot holds firm, so shall he in life.”

She buried the knot in the garden and then turned to the still beating heart of the wolf that sat within a glass jar that she had let sour for this very occasion. 

She ate and ate, devouring the raw muscle of the heart, feasting on the writhing organ, swallowing until she finished it, blood upon her face, and fingers. And then she drew on her belly the sign of the Dark Lord.

Her arms open as she called into the night, “A son. I give you a son!”

* * *

As spring bled into summer, her waist grew wider. Only weeks past midsummer, the babe begun to quicken. She felt vindicated and she dreamed the Dark Lord would appear once again. Afterall, no mortal or witch babe would grow this fast. Walpurgis Night was only two months past, and yet she could feel steady movement within her womb.

The Dark Lord visited her in her dreams. In those dreams she lay with him in the realm He ruled. And when He took her He was different than He had been. His eyes, which before were blood red, were turning blue. The hair on His body had receded, and the last time that He had taken her in her dreams His face had become shorter and shorter until it was almost human. She became boneless, exhausted. Her child and her Lord took everything from her, and yet she was happy to give it.

Day and night the Dark Lord was before her. He showed His favor upon her in the blessings of her gifts. And during the night He showed her His favor by taking her body. She did not question her love for him, which came from every pore in her skin, for He was her everything, her Lord and Master. She did not deserve His favor, a lowly human. He looked into her eyes, his deep blue eyes gazing into her soul, leaving her burning, naked, _alive._

It was at that time that she found the dead dove upon her pillow. She sighed. She had hoped it would not come to this, had hoped that the girl’s silliness would lessen after her unholy union with the warlock she always bragged about.

Hermione had no qualms cursing mortals, and saw no trouble with cursing another witch if there was a reason for it. Adonia Dunholm deserved the curse that Hermione would thusly lay upon her.

She knelt beside Crookshanks and smiled, “If you would steal her moon’s blood rags for me, Crooky, I will gladly present you with a whole fish for supper.”

Her familiar perked up, his demonic nature excited by the prospect of both mischief and a tasty meal. He yowled and scampered through the window into the night.

Early that morning she woke to a bloodied cotton similar to the ones she used in her own garments to catch her moon’s blood beside her bed. She smothered Crookshanks with kisses and as promised, laid a fat salmon before him. He crowed in excitement and she picked up the rag as she moved towards her garden spell bench.

Tansy, Parsley oil, Mugwort, and Yarrow. She mixed them together in the elk blood she had preserved.

“This curse I lay upon your house,” she began, “This curse I lay upon your womb. This curse I lay upon your soul. For no child will live in blood such as this.”

She dropped the rag into the mixture and watched as it bubbled as though burning and then the entire thing evaporated into the air in blackened smoke.

She felt the Dark Lord watch her curse, felt His eyes upon her cauldron.

Crookshanks mewed from the porch and she looked at him.

“I was not too harsh, was I, Crooky?”

He purred and sat, licking his paws, “I do not think so either. Aside from the fact that she tried to kill my son, she almost destroyed my Hands of Glory!” Hermione exclaimed in a huff, gesturing to the severed hands that grew from green vines. “Those are worth quite a penny, and I happen to be the only one who grows them in _all_ of Britain.”

Hermione washed her hands of her curse in freshwater and salt and then stepped inside.

Adonia Dunholm would regret the day she began to target Hermione Lovelace.

One night, a few weeks later, as she bathed in the full moon after Black Mass, she was met with her familiar’s soft paws upon her neck. She looked to the side to see Crookshanks holding a small kitten by the scruff. It was the same orange as Crooky, fluffy, with a squashed nose, and the same blood red eyes.

She sat up, unashamed of her nudity in the light of the sequestered forest.

“My, my, Crooky. What _have_ you been up to?” she asked as she pulled the kitten into her arms. “You have been quite busy, my sweet boy.”

Crookshanks sat on his haunches and purred in satisfaction, whipping his tail and sitting tall with pride.

“I suppose you brought-” she looked at the belly, “-him for the babe?”

Crookshanks purred again.

Hermione smiled as the kitten mewed and began grooming her fingers. He jumped from her arms and ran in an excited circle, yipping and hopping as he explored her clearing.

“His name will be Pandemonium,” Hermione said to both herself and the babe, “And he will be your guide.”

She watched as her belly stretched and contorted, as a cloven hoof was shaped under skin. She grinned, seeing evidence even more that laying with the Dark Lord was no dream, and that the child she carried within her was indeed His. Her son was growing, was within her belly. He was a gift. A gift to her, a gift from the Dark Lord Himself. Just the thought of it made her body tingle with the pleasure that she had begun to expect when she thought of her Lord.

As the air grew thicker, and the humidity turned into a cool chill, her wish was granted once again. She stood upon the soaked soil, oils anointing her skin, chanting as she willed him to hear her prayers. And then He stood before her, in all His unholy glory, His cloven hooves steaming with the fires of hell.

“My Lord,” she cried and fell to her knees, knowing that she was unworthy of His visits.

“Hermione Lovelace,” the Dark Lord intoned, His voice somewhere between a man and beast, “You have called for me, and I, your master, have graciously answered.”

“Yes,” she cried, “Yes.” She remained on her knees but straightened her back and curled her fingers over the linen fabric that covered the swell of her belly. “He moves, My Lord. He is strong, just as His Father.”

She could hear His breath leave His nostrils, His forked tongue letting out a whisper before her.

“Of course he is strong!” the Dark Lord neighed out a laugh. “He is of my seed. And I am inferior to none, witchling.”

Hermione smiled and looked up. “He will come when the veil grows thin, My Lord.”

The Dark Lord did not respond but He began to step forward and Hermione looked at Him with eyes filled with earnest yearning.

“I have needs, witchling. You will fulfill them.”

She rushed to her feet and wrapped her arms around Him, “Anything, My Lord.”

* * *

This would be her last visit to town before the babe was born, Hermione knew. The air was even colder in October than it had been in September. She had taken no more midwifery contracts, and had brewed six months of contraceptive for Madam Donoghue. That would last them long enough for her to raise her babe enough for him to survive the cold Scottish winter.

She sighed as she fingered the gold coins in her pocket that would be there for only minutes. She passed into the butcher's shop and spent much of her gold on dried meat.

“Might I buy the bones too, good sir,” she requested and the man looked at her through narrow eyes so she continued, “For broth for the winter, nothing so untoward, sir.”

He looked relieved and began to collect the cow’s bones, chicken feet, and pig’s bones.

“I was hoping not, missy. All this news from Edinburgh has me mighty scared, you see.”

Hermione raised her brows, “News from Edinburgh?”

“You must not live in town,” the butcher chortled, “Why, the King captured those witches that nearly killed the Queen.”

Hermione wanted to snort, but schooled her look in a face of surprise, “Witches you say? Whatever did they do?”

The butcher leaned in close, “They conjured a storm, they did. Forced the Queen to turn back her ship.”

“How terrible,” Hermione replied disingenuously.

The butcher nodded, “You watch yourself, missy. They found a witch two towns over! There could even be one in town.”

Hermione faced a look of fear, “Thank you for the warning, sir. I will stay home, then. I would not want any harm to my babe.” 

Inside, Hermione was laughing. Witches were almost _never_ caught. Of course, some lone hedge witches were occasionally found, but they often escaped. Hermione reasoned that whatever witches that their King had caught were probably not witches at all.

He handed her the bones and accepted her coins.

“You have a good day now, missy.”

Hermione smiled and put the bones in her bag, waving to the man as she crossed the street towards where a farmer was selling his vegetables. She spent more on potatoes, carrots, and vegetables she could pickle for the winter.

“Would you like some apples too, dearie?” the farmer’s wife asked with a kind smile.

Hermione smiled back, “I have plenty, madam. There is an apple tree near my home.”

Hermione bid them farewell and then made her final stop to the miller, where she planned to buy enough grain to last her until spring.

“That looks mighty heavy, miss,” the man said in concern.

“Oh not at all,” Hermione replied, “I will be fine, sir. I am not walking home.”

He sighed in relief and pulled the sack to be weighed. She paid and then dragged the sack towards an alley that led towards the outskirts of town. She looked around, careful of any watchful eyes, before she disappeared.

But she was not careful enough.

* * *

“I am telling you!” yelled the cross man, “He was healthy and hale and now he is buried!”

The priest and the magistrate shared a look, “You believe this is the work of The Devil?”

“Of course it is!” Mr. Mallory shouted, “And yet he did not take my wife! If it were their time to meet our Lord, would he not take them both!”

The priest nodded, “This is quite true. Our Heavenly father is generous to women who are weak with emotion.”

The magistrate leaned back, “And how did The Devil appear, Mallory?”

“The girl!” Mr. Mallory fumed, “The wench who was the midwife. Lovelace was her name, My Lord. There was something not right about her! I dreamed of a black dog after I met her, and she put a curse upon our house, this I know!”

“Did you _see_ her witchery?” asked the priest, in barely veiled concern.

“Of course I did, Father! And so did my serving girl. Come here, you idiot.” he yanked a blonde girl forward. “Tell them what you saw Anne.”

Anne swallowed in fear, “I saw her take the Missus’... _afterbirth_.”

The priest gasped in horror. “What else did you see, child?”

“I…”

“Speak up, girl!” sneered Mr. Mallory.

“She did use the magics of The Devil only a few days ago, Father McCoy. I saw her leaving town, I did. And she disappeared! I blinked and she was gone.”

The priest sighed in distress, “This is certainly a sign of The Devil.”

The magistrate looked at him in annoyance, “You cannot hardly believe this tripe.”

Mr. Mallory shrieked in rage, “It is true, Lord Abernathy! She saw the witch with her own eyes!”

Father McCoy nodded in agreement, “Only a witch would steal the afterbirth. It is known, Lord Abernathy. They eat it and curse the mother and babe.”

“Fine,” Lord Abernathy sneered, “I will write to the magistrate in Edinburgh, and request the King send help. In the meantime, you will do nothing to provoke this witch, Mallory. Or you will face the King’s justice.”

Mr. Mallory agreed resentfully, and led the maid out of the magistrate’s building and towards their horse and carriage. When they stepped in, Anne’s green eyes turned bright blue.

“You did will, mortal. And you will forget I was ever here.”

Moments later, Mr. Mallory was alone.

* * *

Black Mass was enlightening as it always was. Sister Blackmoon had given an absolutely beautiful dark sermon of rapture and hellfire. She had thanked Hermione for her contribution to the Coven and to the Dark Lord.

“It is the child of your womb that will allow the demons to walk beside us, to let our Lord and Master to leave His prison in Hell as He wishes without being summoned.”

Hermione sat erect and proud, proud that Lovelace blood would give such strength and power to the Dark Lord.

“Witches are more than mere mortals. They deserve nothing! For they worship their false god, and condemn our Master. Is He not great and true? Does He not give us all we ask?”

The Coven all murmured their agreement. It was true, Hermione knew. The Dark Lord always answered her prayers, and had done the moment she had signed her name in the Book of the Beast.

“When demons roam the earth, and from the Dark Lord walks among us, we shall be His right hand!” shouted Blackmoon as she became more and more passionate about her sermon, “For He asks us to make the mortal realm another ring of Hell! And we shall enslave the mortals, they who are weak and worthless.”

At this the Coven cheered. Mortals were useless. They had no power, and, Hermione thought snidely, they lived such _short_ lives. Hermione’s own mother had roamed the Earth for four hundred years before she had given birth to Hermione. Mortals were weaker than bugs. They couldn’t even bind a demon to themselves as a pet. Hermione had done that to Crookshanks without help when she was only five!

“And on the day they celebrate their false savior, our Lord’s son shall be born and the Dark Lord shall come and He shall rule this pitiful world. And we, we who have worshipped him, have been loyal and devoted to His every cause will rise about the rest. Our Coven handed Him the vessel for His seed so thus we will be above all others. For we have given Him His only ill-begotten son!”

The cheers were even louder, and many of her brothers and sisters looked at her in exaltation. For she alone had allowed their Coven to rise beyond the rest. She received a squeeze from Sister Hill and a hug from Sister Whitegrove, who sat on either side of her.

Adonia gave her a dirty stare, but then smirked and looked away with her nose in the air. Hermione ignored her, though, for the witch was pathetic, worthless, and added nothing to the power of their Coven.

Sisters Whitegrove and Hill, on the other hand, were powerful witches, loyal, and devoted to their cause. They had also given their strength to her before she had even become the mother of the Dark Lord’s heir.

Perhaps she would ask the Dark Lord for them. Surely if she explained to him how clever and devout they were, He would see why they were necessary as handmaidens. She was certain the Dark Lord would invite her to Hell. Not only so she could raise His heir, but even for the fact that He seemed to be pleased by her. Hermione had never heard of the Dark Lord visiting a witch more than once. And yet He had visited her countless times since she had conceived His heir.

When the sermon ended, she bidded her sisters an unholy evening and she concentrated on returning to her home.

Hermione could never have conceived of what she would see in her little cottage.

Crookshanks hung from the ceiling, His blood pooled beneath him. Hermione did not hold back her tears, and barely stopped herself from retching at the sight of her familiar’s unmoving form. She pulled him down carefully and rushed towards her back door.

Whoever did this would pay. They didn’t know about her Lazarus pit. A bit of hard work digging, some ghastly water and some fervent prayer and Crookshanks would be right as rain.

But when she pulled on her door handle it didn’t move. She pulled again and then ran towards her window to find that wooden boards were nailed all down her door. More importantly, there were dozens of men and women with torches approaching her cottage from all directions. Hermione bit her lip and then held Crookshanks tight before concentrating on her desire to go to Sister Whitegrove’s home.

Nothing happened. She suppressed her panic and tried again and again. Still she stood planted in her own home. She rushed towards her mirror and ran her finger around the rim to contact Sister Blackmoon and call for help from her coven. Her mirror did not glow. She focused hard and tried to astral project to the Whitegrove home to ask for help. And still, nothing happened.

Now she did give in to her sense of panic, and she ran towards the window again to see the mob had gathered about her home and were jeering in anger. That was when she saw the carvings. All around the outside they were dug into the dirt. Spells that allowed a witch to enter but not to leave. Spells to cancel any magic cast. Spells that would bind any witch who crossed them.

“My Lord!” she cried, “Please! Help me, please! The mortals – they have come for me and the babe!”

But there was no response. Hermione knew that if the Dark Lord had heard her He would certainly come, if not because for her then for her son. She supposed there were too many heathens in the mob with their symbols of their false god for him to hear.

She thought fast. She may not be able to do magic, but if the item already had magic, would it work? She rushed towards her kitchen and opened the cabinet, pulling out a thin red string. She begun to stretch it out, concentrating as she looked from the window at the angry crowd.

“Give yourself up, witch! You cannot escape the King’s justice nor the eyes of God!”

She wrapped the threads across her fingers.

“Weave a circle ‘round him thrice,” she began, as she spun the string across her fingers, knotting it this way and that, “Curse their hearts into ice. Spin them round like blind old mice, use their eyes for blood sacrifice.” She pulled the string together tight, twisting it so it was knotted.

She heard a few members of the crowd yell in pain as they lost their sight and fell to the ground.

“It is the witch!” an elderly woman screamed.

“The work of the Devil himself!” cried another, holding his burning torch in rage.

She grabbed a knife to cast another curse but something was amiss and so into her pocket the blade went. Before Hermione could try to protect herself again, she began to smell smoke. She spun around. While she had been in the kitchen, someone had set the other side of her house aflame. Her garden!

She rushed towards it and saw her herbs burning, her hands of glory withering and she cried out. “These fools will be the death of us all if they burn the monkshood!”

She ran towards her front door, hoping it might not be boarded, but when she pulled the handle it was boiling hot to the touch and locked firmly in place. This was no work of a mortal. These witch hunters had had help. They could not have known the runes to lock magic away, nor could they have closed her door and killed her familiar.

This was the work of a witch or a warlock who wanted her dead. She turned next towards her window as her home filled with smoke and the air became so hot, she started to sweat and could barely breathe. She grabbed her chair and hit her window to break it. _Finally_ a way out. 

If she could just sneak past the mob somehow, she could run to freedom.

She turned to the hook where her shimmering Death Cloak hung. Would it be able to hold long enough for her to escape? It had been failing more and more often, and the last time she had used it, it had worked for less than a minute before the silk had become visible.

She fingered it hesitantly but then pulled it around herself. She would have to try it, for it was her only hope to escape the angered mortals circled around her home.

She turned towards the broken window, willed the cloak to work and carefully began to climb out. She was slow, Hermione knew, because the babe was heavy and her balance was terrible.

If she could just pass the ritual circle that bound her magic, she could call for the Dark Lord. Surely He would appear to save her.

She took a deep breath as her feet touched the ground and looked for an opening in the mob. There was one, however small. Her plan meant that no one could know she was there, that no one could see her, or have an inkling she had disappeared from her burning house.

“Aye!” screamed a man, “Her window is broken!”

Another man ran towards her house to peak through another glass, “She is in there no longer!”

The mob began to roar, and Hermione panicked, running past the first set of magic dispelling runes. But there were more, mere yards away.

Whoever had placed the wards around her cottage had certainly wanted her dead. For she even saw them carved in the trees that circled her clearing.

She slipped past a rounded woman and held her cloak tighter, praying to the Dark Lord that its magic would hold as she passed the second set of runes.

As she ran past another man with a torch in his hand, she thought perhaps she would make it. For the last set of runes she could see were only but twenty feet away. If she could get there, she could make it. She _would_ make it.

Until she heard a yell behind her. “There she is!” screeched a woman and Hermione pushed herself to run faster in terror. The magic had not held.

Fifteen feet.

“Get her, boys!”

Ten feet.

“Burn the witch!”

Five feet.

“You will die for what you have done!”

She was so very close, an arms length from the carved tree when she felt someone grab her cloak. She panicked as she tried to throw it off so she could continue to run. But it was too late, for they had grabbed her by one of her long braids, yanking her back.

She fell hard to the ground, straight onto her back.

_Please! My Lord! Help me! I beg of you!_

But she knew He could not hear, for the runes blocked all magic given by His dark gifts. Within this circle she was almost no better than a mortal.

She felt a blinding pain in her shoulder and when she looked upon it she saw thin wood protruding from her skin, red blood seeping onto her dress.

 _They shot me_ , Hermione realized in horror. But she had no time to be afraid, for just a moment later, she felt a sharp pain to the side of her head and so all she saw was black.

* * *

She tried to blink but her eyelids were so heavy it was the hardest thing she had ever done. She took a breath but there was a foul taste in her mouth, and she could barely breathe no matter how heavily she sucked in air.

“She’s awake!” yelled a voice and suddenly the darkness was bright.

She tried to blink again but her head ached and the light hurt.

She felt a sharp sting on her cheek. Before she tried to disappear again she saw the same wards where she was being kept. It was a church, that much she knew. Vile images of the false god’s son were all over. Her heart sank. Pious Christians could trick her Lord Satan. For those who believed in the False Good truly and earnestly warded away the Devil. If she cried for help, He certainly would not hear her.

“Pay attention, wench!” yelled the voice from before, and she felt her cheek sting even more.

“Now, we shall begin,” said a man in fine clothes. He wore silks, perfumed, with his beard trimmed and golden rings on his fingers. This was no ordinary villager.

“Are you a witch?” the man demanded. She had heard about these men who carried out the King’s desire to eradicate witches. Perhaps if they dragged her from the church, she could call for her Lord to rescue her and smite the heathens where they stood. She resolved to anger them as much as she could.

Hermione blinked and then snorted.

The brutish man slapped her again. “You want to lose your fingers, eh? I could cut them from you, whore, one by one!”

Hermione inwardly rolled her eyes. “You are correct. I am, indeed, a witch.”

The wealthy man, and a few others gasped in horror.

That made Hermione snort again and then begin to laugh.

“Why ask a question and then be surprised by the answer you desire?” Hermione questioned.

A man walked forward, dressed in white, with the sign of the false god on his chest, “You brazen whore of the Devil!” he cried in anger.

Hermione leaned back, her belly showing prominently. She knew that would anger them, “My Lord does not _pay_ me to fuck him every night. I do it willingly.”

The gasps of horrified outrage amused her. She looked to a woman in the corner, staring at her in disgust. “Tell me, Good Lady. If your false god asked you to suck His cock, would you?”

That earned another slap, but this one was from the man she assumed was a lord. “My wife is no whore!”

Hermione rolled her eyes which earned another slap, even harder than the one before.

“There is no need for a trial,” the priest said, “She admitted to being a witch and,” he shuddered in disgust, “ _fornicating_ with the Devil.”

Hermione gave a look of fake surprise, “No trial? But surely the King wishes to know of all the times I laid with the Dark Lord himself.”

“Speak not of the King, witch!” the Lord yelled.

The priest looked at her with no pity in his eyes, “You will burn, witch. For the gallows is not enough for evil such as you.”

Hermione looked him in the eye and she swore she saw him shiver, “You will rue the day you sentenced me to die.”

She felt the bag before the world went black again. This was her chance. If they could just move beyond the church-

She hadn’t planned on them knocking her out again.

* * *

When she woke there was a crowd screaming obscenities and through rotten food and shit at her. She was naked, tied to a pole surrounded by a pyre. Carved into the ground were the same wards that had been scribed at her home and at her church. There would be no escape from the fire.

But she was not scared. She felt no fear, felt nothing but boiling rage. She wanted blood, revenge, _hellfire_.

“Start the fire!” yelled the priest, and men with torches dropped their flames upon the wood and fat which set aflame in seconds. It licked at her feet, immediately, but she would not scream. They would not take her dignity from her.

The crowd cheered as her toes blackened and the flames crawled up her legs.

In the distance upon a throne, was the King. He wore a crown upon his head and Hermione looked him in the eye. Her belly began to cramp, and she knew that this was the end. When she blinked next, her eyes went milky and blood began to pour from her nose and ears. She had strength enough for this, as she bled between her legs, excruciating pain overcoming her.

“A curse I lay upon your house

Only five of your line will wear a crown;

Your heir shall lose his head and throne;

His son will die without a throne;

The one after him will be weak and infirm;

A queen will name her sister heir;

A living child she shall never bear.”

The crowd was silent before shouts of anger erupted. The King’s eyes narrowed with anger and he moved to speak but Hermione could not hear him.

And as her skin set aflame, the pain melted away. They did not know that they released her from her earthly bonds. They did not know that they set her spirit free so she may reside by her Dark Lord’s side for all eternity. She took in a last agonized breath, cursing Heaven that took the Dark Lord’s only ill begotten son from her womb. And then she looked the King in his eyes and screamed her final words, “Praise Satan!”

**Author's Note:**

> so there's gonna be a part 2 set in current day... watch out for it???


End file.
